


give thanks for the corn, water, and wood

by JennaCupcakes



Series: this western life i chose [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (Francis is learning but it's a Process), Alternate Universe - Western, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, alternative universe, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28429341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: In December, James asks Francis to stay.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: this western life i chose [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082336
Comments: 18
Kudos: 47





	give thanks for the corn, water, and wood

**Author's Note:**

> A little holiday treat set in my cowboy AU.
> 
> Title from [Corn, Water, and Wood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDInrcRHJVw) by the Riders in the Sky.
> 
> For my Terror bingo square 'with you I can be plain'.

The sun had disappeared behind the horizon about twenty minutes before James shouldered open the door to the cabin, stomping his boots to clear off the snow and mud. His cheeks were red from the cold, and a fine dusting of snow had settled on his hat. It showered Francis when James ducked his head to kiss him.

“How are things at the big house?” Francis asked as James shrugged off his coat.

“All good. What’s for dinner?”

James was already lifting the lids of the assorted pots that Francis had moved off the stove and wrapped in towels to keep warm. Francis smiled and shook his head. “Why don’t you sit down and find out as we eat?”

James huffed, but he took off his hat and peeled off his glove and was seated at the table before long, where Francis had already set out two bowls for the soup. James tore into the fresh bread with little ceremony—the cold air always made him hungry.

“Henry talked to me today,” James said after he had wolved down a few spoons and was warming his hands on a cup of mulled wine. Francis had bought the spices on his last trip into town, at a price that still made his eyes water when he thought about it, but James loved the stuff. Francis found himself already thinking about when he’d be able to resupply.

“He says that they’d be happy to have us stay till the spring at least. They have a couple of miles of fence that needs checking, and you know how branding day is…”

Francis nodded along as James continued outlining tasks that would need doing come spring. Part of him wanted to reject it out of hand. They’d been at Berg Mountain Peak for a couple of months now—arriving just after calving season, in time to brand the young cows and get to work on the range. James was more suited to this kind of work than Francis, but Francis appreciated the roof over their heads, the privacy of their little cabin, the income and the fresh food from the garden that John Bridgens, the owner of the ranch, kept by the house. Nevertheless, he had always been a creature of the road, and he felt that committing to another couple of months meant overstaying his welcome, even if James and Henry got on well, and Bridgens himself had said multiple times how welcome the additional pairs of hands had been.

“We’re picky with the company we keep,” Bridgens had said in October, just after the roundup, “but you and James fit in.”

Francis hadn’t known what to say to that, and still didn’t.

“We don’t have to decide anything now.” James, who had clearly sensed Francis’s apprehension, paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth to put a hand on Francis’s arm. “It’s just an offer.”

Francis nodded distractedly.

“The stew is very good,” James said, and some of the tension bled from the air. They talked about what needed fixing over the next weeks, planned a trip into town they might take if the weather held. Francis turned his feet towards the fire, and James called him an old man.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” James added as they got to cleaning up from dinner, “John invited us over for Christmas dinner at the big house next week. To thank us for a good season’s work, he said.”

Then, when he saw Francis’s expression, he added: “Oh, don’t make that face!”

“What face?”

“You know the face.”

Francis knew what face James was likely referring to. It was only—James was so affable, he so easily made a home in places that had always been temporary to Francis, and Francis feared for him. Eventually, they’d move on. They’d have to. Someone would ask questions after watching them a little too closely, and Francis didn’t want to be there when those questions were asked.

But that time wasn’t now, and James liked Henry and John.

“Alright, alright,” Francis said.

* * *

Later that night, they put on their boots and jackets again and headed out towards the winter pasture where the cattle were kept. Francis had the Krag slung over his shoulder. The snow crunched quietly underfoot.

The cattle were lowing quietly. Their eyes shone in the moonlight, their breath thick steam in the air. Francis was watching James as he moved ahead, one hand shoved into his pocket, his Springfield in the other. The life on a ranch had always suited him, and it was never clearer than when Francis watched him work. It even suited Francis, who hadn’t been born to the life like James.

Far behind them in the distance, the yellow light of the main house shone like spilled honey on the snow. Francis caught the faint scent of the wood stove, sharper on the crisp winter air. They hit the first fence and turned south, following the line of it, one eye watching for coyotes. Out of sight of the main house, James took Francis’s hand.

“At least until calving season is over. Think about it.”

Francis squeezed his hand, feeling overcome—as he did in such moments—with the desire to give James everything he asked for, simply because he’d asked for it. “I’ll think about it.”

He turned again, checking only out of an abundance of care. It was just them out here, them and the cattle, and those weren’t likely to care. He gathered a handful of James’s fur-lined lapels into his hands and tugged him down into a firm kiss, his cold nose pressed into James’s frozen cheeks, James’s mouth warm against his. James brought up one hand to cradle Francis’s face, long thumb tracing Francis’s cheekbone, wiping away a tear the biting wind had torn from the corner of his eye.

Francis felt pleasantly flushed when they trekked on. James followed behind him, a grin on his face. He grabbed Francis’s arse as he passed him, a quick squeeze before he was gone. Francis bounded after him, then changed his mind when James evaded his tackle easily. He bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, sculpting it carefully into a projectile. With the eye of a marksman, he hit James dead-centre between his shoulder blades.

James whirled around; all mock offense undermined by the amusement in his eyes. Francis was already preparing the second snowball.

“Oh, you’ll regret this.”

James slung the Springfield over his shoulder and scooped up some snow of his own. He narrowly avoided Francis’s second projectile, and Francis cursed. He ducked to avoid James’s snowball, but was just too slow or perhaps James had anticipated his movement. It hit him in the shoulder, spraying snow on his face and down his collar, despite how closely he’d wrapped his scarf.

There was precious little in the way of cover out here, and so it became a game of who could duck faster or step aside to avoid a flying snowball. It ended with James doubled over from laughter, bracing himself on his thighs, and Francis dusting off all the snow his leather coat had caught.

“Well,” Francis said, “That’s one way to scare off the coyotes.”

He looked back towards the cows, some of which were watching them with impassive eyes. He felt oddly self-conscious. James closed the distance between them, looping his arm around Francis. “Shift yourself. I’ll make us hot chocolate.”

* * *

After the roundup in early autumn, things always fell into a sort of lull on the ranch, but the truth was, winter was a time with plenty left to do: there was new fence to be made for the spring, and repairs to be done around the house. The cattle still needed feeding, and there were plenty of coyotes and the occasional hungry wolf hoping for a kill that they needed to keep up regular patrols. It was what had first convinced Francis to stay through December and January—he’d hate to feel like a deadweight, relying on the charity of Henry and John, but Bridgens had assured him that he’d get to earn his keep, and he’d not been wrong.

The week before Christmas felt almost as busy as the days before they cleaned out the pasture, when they’d picked the cows they’d sell off at the stockyards this year and drove the rest to their winter quarters. Francis got into one more snowball fight with James—ironically over the question who had won the last one—and spent three days riding into town with Henry to pick up supplies they had ordered. He made a point to pick up more spices for mulled wine while he was there, as well as a present for James, and spent the rest of the time missing him terribly and wondering when he had become so terribly lovesick in turn.

Dinner was scheduled for Christmas Eve, and Bridgens had given them the following day off (Francis was sure that James had negotiated behind his back that Bridgens would let him feed the cows, still, because James was silly like that). They put on their Sunday best, which meant more for James than it did for Francis—his nice wardrobe consisted of a white shirt that wasn’t entirely see-through from washing too many times, and a clean pair of pants. James looked far lovelier, in a red pinstripe shirt and dark trousers. Francis told him so as he seized him by the hips and pushed him against the wall for a thorough kiss. James moaned in surprise, arching into Francis.

“Christ,” he said, “Christ, we’ll be late for dinner.”

Then he kissed Francis again, sucking on Francis’s tongue when Francis shoved it into his mouth and Francis realised it had been a promise rather than a complaint. A small smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, he sank to his knees before James.

* * *

They were late for dinner, but only by a fraction, and neither Henry nor Bridgens made a comment as they were immediately taken by James’s casserole. Francis made off to the kitchen where he set to reheating the mulled wine he’d prepared earlier.

Dinner was quiet but lovely. The food was simple and good, and Francis ate until he found the thought of moving from his seat unbearable. James told stories from his rodeo days, which grew more adventurous every time Francis heard them, and later, when they were gathered around the fire with more mulled wine, Bridgens read them a poem. Francis had never been one for reading, but Bridgens had a gift for it—he read not like someone simply taking words off the page, but imbued them with his own meaning and emotion. Francis caught sight of Henry, smiling serenely at him.

It was in the kitchen later, when he was helping with the washing, that Francis found himself alone with Bridgens.

“I know Henry talked to James already, but I wanted to extend the invitation myself. There’s room for you past this season if you want it.”

Francis remained very still, the towel clutched tightly in his hand. It was worse, somehow, because Bridgens was a genuinely nice man—the farm was barely self-sustaining as things stood, and yet he never tried to cut corners or treat the animals worse for it. He was someone who’d chosen this life for the love of it. That made leaving harder, even as Francis saw the inevitability of it.

“We haven’t decided anything yet,” Francis said, “And we wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing,” Bridgens assured him with a smile so kind it made Francis want to saddle up Terror and run, but Terror was dead, and James was firmly ensconced in a conversation about calving with Henry in the next room, and there was that cat that James had grown incurably fond off that he’d want to say goodbye to—

“Thank you,” Francis said curtly.

“I’m glad we hired you and James on. Men like us have to watch out for each other.”

Francis nodded, wanting this conversation over with, wanting—well, the safety of few to no attachments, never staying long enough for people to remember his name, when the meaning of what Bridgens had said sunk in.

“Men like—”

“Oh,” Bridgens said, at the same time Francis said, “James and I are not—”

It was a horrible thing to say. It was the only sane thing to say. Francis could feel his face burn and turned towards the sink where the water had taken on a pallid grey. He set down his towel. He lowered his head and breathed. When he looked up, Bridgens was still looking at him.

“I hope you know what you have in him, Francis.”

Francis ran a hand over his face, half sure he might cry. “I do. By God I do.”

Bridgens nodded. He looked sorry for what he’d started, but he was an exceptionally patient man—Francis had watched him with his animals, and the way they reacted to his composed manner. He understood, now, why even the jumpiest stallion eventually relented in his presence. Closing his eyes, he released a breath.

“So you and Henry…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, but Bridgens smiled and nodded. “I consider myself a very lucky man to have him in my life.”

Francis nodded again and tried for a smile that didn’t feel entirely fake. “And James knew…”

“I thought he told you.”

Francis laughed, a brief bark of amusement. “He probably thought I’d figured it out myself.”

He felt lightheaded, the wine and relief at the end of a sheer drop mixing together in his head. He set down his towel and followed Bridgens back out into the living room. When he took James’s hand, James looked at him in surprise.

“We’d be happy to stay through the spring,” he said, feeling the weight of the words on his tongue, and an unbearable relief after they were spoken.

* * *

The darkest days of the year passed in a happy haze of comfort and too much food for Francis and James. On New Year’s Eve, they took a ride out to the perimeter of the farm after dark to check for tracks and watch the stars. The ground was covered in a thick blanket of snow, lit blue in the moonlight. The mountains in the distance stood stalwart and dark, quiet watchers in the night.

They returned well past midnight, frozen through. It was wonderfully warm inside the cabin. Francis’s cheeks began to prickle as he peeled himself out of his jacket and shuffled over to the oven to warm his numb hands. James was already moving around their little kitchen, putting on water for tea and pulling out bread and cheese for a late-night snack. They ate sitting close together, Francis’s fingers brushing the back of James’s hand.

“I’m glad we’re staying, Francis,” James said into the comfortable silence that had settled around them like snow. Francis looked up, then, at the cabin around them: the fire burning away happily in the fireplace, the kitchen looking out over their small vegetable garden and the mountains in the distance, the door to their bedroom that was slightly ajar, where their sheets still lay tangled because neither of them had felt like making the bed in the morning before heading out to feed the cows. He imagined packing up and leaving, and found it a deeply unpleasant thought.

“Me too,” he said.

James seemed surprised—a widening of his eyes, barely noticeable, except for Francis, who knew him well—but he smiled. “Good. I’m glad.”

They cleaned up perfunctorily and went to bed. James’s feet and hands were abominably cold when they were finally under the covers. He had the audacity to try warming them on Francis’s stomach when he wrapped himself around Francis’s back.

“What else am I supposed to do!” he said when Francis complained, “Besides, you’ve heat to spare.”

Francis huffed. A minute later, the hands returned.

This time, Francis wasted no time with words. He turned around and had James pinned on his back before the man could protest. “You’re a nuisance, Fitzjames.”

James hummed, a happy noncommittal noise.

Francis ducked his head down to mouth at James’s neck. The soft skin of it was a pleasant place to kiss, not least of all because it always left James squirming under him. When he rubbed his cheek against it, James gasped and seized Francis’s hips in a bruising grasp, using his leverage to press his hardening prick against Francis.

“Here’s an idea for how to warm up,” James murmured.

“Not if you let me do all the work.” Francis punctured the words with a bite to James’s neck, light enough to do little more than tease. Beneath him, James laughed—a pleasant, light-hearted sound.

“Is that how it is?” His hands flexed on Francis’s arse, long fingers teasing towards the cleft. Francis arched into the touch with embarrassing ardour. “I might show you a thing or two.”

“About warming up?”

James’s lips, near his ear now. “About warming up.”

They divested themselves of their clothes quickly. Francis ended up on his stomach, arse raised in the air, feeling slightly ridiculous exposing himself in such a way, but as always, these days, James was behind him, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and socks still on his feet, running a calming hand over Francis’s lower back.

“Delightful,” he said at length, and Francis felt his blood rise in anticipation.

There was familiarity in their lovemaking, but it was by no means routine—Francis always gasped like some hurt, tender thing when stuck on James’s long, lovely fingers, and James soothed him through it without fail. Where there had once been urgency, there was now the unhurried desire to be close to one another, to draw out the moments they could spend joined in the most intimate ways until they both couldn’t bear it anymore.

Their bodies were warm where they touched. When James slid into Francis they both sighed—the relief of coming together, of being loved in the most gentle of ways. James mouthed along the nape of Francis’s neck with wet, hungry kisses that had Francis shivering and panting in his arms, arching back into the firm snap of James’s hips until he cried out.

“Yes,” James muttered, his voice deep and hoarse, “Let me hear you, Francis.”

James had a hand directly over his heart, Francis realised as James drove into him again, his body shaking from this most satisfying torture. James knew he wasn’t very vociferous in his pleasure, and that spurred him on to double his effort, to strike Francis deep and with precision until Francis could only breathe out small whimpers. Then, and only then, did James relent: the hand over Francis’s heart wandered down to his prick, gripping him in a firm hold that had Francis moan anew.

“You take me so well,” James panted, “Like you were made to take my prick, _Christ_ —”

And Francis felt his face colour and his pleasure double at the words, wishing that his life could always be this, that he could always be wrapped in a filthy, lascivious embrace with James, who would hold him and keep him.

James’s thrusts stuttered, his voice catching on a rumble of a moan, and Francis could feel the insistent, stiff press of James’s prick as he tried to cram himself deeper into Francis’s body, and then there was the pulse and twitch of his release. His hand faltered on Francis’s prick, fingers twitching seemingly outside of James’s control and Francis wrapped a hand around them, thrusting, once, twice, and then coming off, shaking and panting and still wrapped safely in James’s arms.

* * *

“How on earth are your feet still cold?”

“Well, Francis, they weren’t strictly necessary for fucking you. My hands are warmer, as you’ll see.”

They had cleaned up and returned under the covers. Outside, a wind had picked up that was rattling at the windows in a way that Francis found only comforting. Times had been he’d spent such winter nights out on the trail. Now he was in bed with James, he was mostly warm, and the discomforts of his lonely life were far behind him.

James, Francis liked to imagine, looked happier as he aged. There were a few streaks of grey in his hair that he insisted gave him a distinguished look. They gave his hair a glow in the low light of their bedroom, like precious metal in a riverbed. The crow’s eyes in the corners of his eyes spoke of a life in which happiness finally outweighed the hurt—some of which, regrettably, had been caused by Francis.

“I love you.”

He was surprised to hear himself speak. This sensation in his chest—the feeling that he was so full that he might overflow—was unfamiliar to him, but once he spoke the words, he recognised their aptness.

James—beautiful, handsome, James—smiled. “I love you, Francis.”

It was one thing to love. It was quite another, Francis thought, to be loved—to be given the trust and devotion of another person, and to have to put it somewhere. Francis felt helpless with it, like someone who was handed a small child for the first time, and feeling the weight and responsibility of another life in their hands. 

James took his hand. “It’s dreadfully late, my dear. Let’s go to sleep.”

They slept. The next morning was clear, and steam rose in great white billows over the winter pasture when Francis rode out to feed the cattle. He looked out at the fields and the mountains, the wide land and open sky. In the distance, he caught sight of James, his cheeks red from the cold air, and felt happy with the knowledge that he’d found a place in this big country—one that he could call his home.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically Bridgens was already in this AU in another role but we’re pretending he wasn’t so that I can double the number of gay cowboys on this ranch. 
> 
> I’m also on on [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/veganthranduil) as veganthranduil. If you liked this, please consider leaving me a comment.


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